


Long You Live And High You Fly

by l_cloudy



Series: KinkMeme Fills [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyswap, Bran Stark Gets Three Wishes, F/M, Gen, Genderbending, Magical Lamp, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>last one added -- Oberyn/Lyanna, mistaken identities and masquerades. Oberyn blames it on the wine, and so should you.<br/></b><br/>(So far: Jon/Asha; Bran and a magical lamp; Jaime/Lyanna; Cersei&Jaime swap bodies; fem!Jon, Lysa feels, Lady Ygritte/Wildling Jon, The Raven, Jaime/Elia, WW2 Jon/Sansa, Petyr & Robert meet at a wedding...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I would; Jon/Asha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jankmaster98](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jankmaster98), [moonagestardust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonagestardust/gifts), [salazarastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarastark/gifts), [perfectlyweird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=perfectlyweird).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For jankmaster98, who asked for Jon/Asha inspired by [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/886403/chapters/1754865).

“I hear you are to join the Night’s Watch,” he hears her say; and he doesn’t turn to look.

“Yes.”

His voice is blunt and his answer short, and Asha’s laugh sounds proud and mocking. Or so she hopes; but the boy knows her well enough to hear the desperation in it.

Asha doesn’t ask why; she already knows. It’s a strange thing, this honor he has, and she loves him all the more for it.

“You are a fool,” she says. “Come with me. A year from now, we could be wed in Pyke.”

His answer is long in coming, and she almost let herself hope.


	2. If wishes were horses; Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the kinkmeme, I couldn’t tell which round. (ETA: [this one](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/10986.html?thread=7101162#t7101162)) Prompt: magical lamp.  
> I meant to write a stereotyped fixit fic, but somehow ended up... crackier, I guess.

No one of Old Nan’s stories ever mentioned genies, but Bran figures they could exist – they must; if one of them is standing right in front of him.

“Three wishes?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Three wishes,” the man – the genie – agrees. His clothes are really odd, Bran decides, what with these large trousers and golden knife at the belt and… why does he have a strip of cloth tied around his chest?

“Can I –” Bran begins; but the genie shakes his head before he can finish.

“No.”

“But you didn’t even listen!”

“You can’t use one wish to ask for more wishes,” the genie says, “and you can’t ask for more genies, or more lamps.”

 _Oh_. He didn’t even think of asking for more lamps.

“I want..” Bran begins, then stop. I want for Father not to be dead, and Maester Luwin and Lady Hornwood. I want for Winterfell to be whole again, and Theon… “Can you bring everything back?” he asks. “Time? To.. to the morning I fell?”

“I can do that,” the genie agrees.

“And I need to remember everything,” he adds. Bran listened to enough stories to know that he needs to clarify everything.

“It’s a big wish,” the genie says, and Bran stares at him.

“Are you _haggling_?”

The creature gives out a long-suffering sigh. “As you wish,” he makes a strange gesture with his hand and suddenly Bran is – lying down, in bed, in his bedroom?

And he can _feel_ his legs.

“I can feel my legs,” he whispers, excited, and the genie snorts.

“Did you doubt my abilities?”

“I didn’t…” Bran decides he doesn’t care to finish. “How do I know that Father is not going to die over again?”

“You don’t,” the genie says, shrugging. “That’s the problem with wishes, boy.”

“Can you bring Father’s memories, too?” he asks, frowning. “To make sure he knows he could die.”

The genie just stares. “It’s a lot of work, memories,” he says. “Couldn’t you think of it sooner?”

Bran feels strangely ashamed. “Take your time,” he tells the genie. “But.. hurry, please.”

“Take your time and hurry,” the creature snorts. “This is just precious. Oh, how I hate children.”

“And what of your third wish?”

Bran thinks of it, long and hard. Everyone is alive, Father will remember what happens soon, no one would be going South, Jon and Benjen would –

“You know,” the genie offers. “If there is nothing else you wish, you could – ”

“I’m not going to free you!” Bran says. _How stupid does he think I am?_

“What about you bring Jon’s mother here to Winterfell?”

The genie glares at him. “What?”

“Jon, my brother Jon. He doesn’t know where his mother is – bring her here.”

He makes the same weird gesture. “Done,” he says.

Bran looks around. “And where is she?”

The genie shrugs. “Couldn’t do it.”

“What kind of genie _are_ you?” Admittedly, Bran doesn’t know how genies are supposed to be – but if they say they can grant wishes then they should… grant wishes.

“A good one, thank you,” the creature says. “The woman couldn’t come because she’s dead. Here’s your third  wish, boy; I’m going back to sleep.”

And before Bran knows there is a metallic sound; and only a an old, ugly lamp where the genie used to be.

* * *

 

Somewhere else in the same castle, Eddard Stark wakes up with a start – he’s just had the worst nightmare of his life.

And suddenly Bran is there, looking red-faced and excited.

“Father,” he calls. “Father, wake up. I have something for you.”

It’s a rusty lamp; the ugliest Ned has ever seen.

“Clean it!” Bran says, and Ned frowns. Did he just say…?

“Clean it!,” his son repeats. “The lamp. Don’t you see how dusty it is?”

Ned does it, using the corner of his bedsheet to brush over the thing, once, twice…

And suddenly the lamp is gone, and there is a… is that a _blue skinned man on his bed_? Wearing trousers; and nothing else.

The…thing eyes dart around the bedroom; on his face; and finally setting on Bran.

“Oh,” he says. “You. _Again_.”


	3. The Sworn Shield; Jaime/Lyanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Elizabeth_Blossom, because this pairing is made of win

 

> His sister has been sleeping with her husband and the difference is, Jaime seems to hate the arrangement while Lyanna doesn’t care.
> 
> “As long as they keep it quiet, that’s it,” she clarifies, and he looks at her as if she were mad. Cersei is fun, in a wicked sort of way, and Robert’s liaisons are a blessing in disguise for the respite  they bring her; but Lyanna cannot afford gossip, not in her situation.
> 
> Jaime might not share her views, but he understands well enough that misery loves company.
> 
> Her hand brushes his softly, lingers, and he lets it. 

OR, this drabble is also called, ‘Cloudy the Loquacious', because I'm unable to respect my own word limit and [the actual fic](../../1170370) spawned by the prompt is almost 3000 words.


	4. A woman's worth; Cersei, Jaime; Bodyswap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I were a woman, I’d be Cersei"  
> Good luck with that, Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filling a [fifteen-months old prompt](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/10986.html?thread=7112682#t7112682).  
> So, uhm, this happened.

“How do we _fix_ this?” Jaime asks, with a  voice that is not his own.

 _Some sort of nightmare_ , he thinks. _It must be_. He hears himself speak, and yet the sound makes him cringe; that, he realizes, and Cersei’s… his… face, right in his line of sight. He closes his eyes, groaning.

“Must we?” she asks, and Jaime bolts at the sound – _Do I really sound like_ this _?_

“Of course you must,” he says, finally raising his head to look at Cersei – at the body that used to be _his_ – straight in the face. They look gazes, and it’s a relief – for how similar their faces are, the differences are still unsettling, but for the eyes.

Cersei’s eyes are identical to Jaime’s, Jaime’s to hers; and there’s no confusion to be had here.

“For all that you are enjoying having a dick, _sister_ ,” he snarls. “It’s not all that there is to being me.”

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind when you realize it.”

Cersei tilts her head – Jaime’s head – and gives out a sideways look. Jaime sees her smile, his own favorite one, all Lannister arrogance. It’s uncanny.

“Perhaps I will,” Jaime’s own voice says. “But in the meanwhile, you can look forward to Robert Baratheon fucking you into the mattress.”


	5. For a woman’s virtue; Fem!Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For perfectlyweird, who asked for more female!Jon

“But how can you stand it, Joanna?” Sansa asks, with all the righteous  indignation of a highborn girl who’s never been wronged in her life. “Him staring like that, and… his hands. I know he’s the King,  but he you are more than what he makes of you. Still a daughter of Eddard Stark.”

She’s sweet, Joanna thinks, this half-sister of hers. Always so proper, of course; but so loving. “Do not worry, Sansa,” she smiles. “His Grace didn’t mean it, and I have seen much worse.”

She has, of course. Joanna Snow is bastard-born, and she knows lust. She has seen it in the eyes of many a man, on Theon Greyjoy’s face, in King Robert’s glances. And she has seen in in Cersei Lannister’s gaze when she looks at her brother, and who could blame her?

It takes surprisingly little effort, for the Robert hates his Queen already; and, in his eyes, Joanna is Lyanna reborn.

Two moons, that all it takes; before Ser Jaime is beheaded and his sister and their bastards exiled to the Free Cities, as a sign of the King’s mercy.

He weds Joanna in the Grand Sept for the whole kingdom to see; making her the highest lady in the land.

Even more so than Catelyn Stark; and it's sweet.


	6. Five times Lysa wished she had married Ned; and the one and only time she was glad she'd married Jon instead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AT ME _CRUSHING_ ALL THESE PRETTY LYSA FEELS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by [this awesome anon](http://www.asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/20758.html?thread=14001942#t14001942).

**I**

It was the morning of her wedding, and Lysa Tully could not seem to stop crying.

Catelyn tried to comfort her, of course; sweet Cat, always so perfect. “Do not worry sister,” she said, squeezing on Lysa’s hand as they paraded in front of the mirror in their maiden cloaks, “I am sure Lord Jon will be gentle.”

Lysa wanted to laugh at that; at the dry, rehearsed tone of her sister’s words. _And what do you know of it, sister?_ Catelyn wasn’t the sullied daughter, the one bartered away for an army. At least Father hadn’t told her; it was humiliation enough that Lord Jon had to know. _And yet, I would do it again…_

There is no veiled contempt in Jon Arryn’s eyes when they are together in the sept; but there is nothing else there either, and Lysa almost thought she was going to cry again. _I am nothing but a womb to him_ , she thought. _That, and an annoyance_.

Ned Stark’s long solemn face was every bit as composed as his foster father’s, but his occasional fidgeting betrayed his nervousness. _A good man_ , Father had said, _and a honorable one_. Lysa thought she might have liked that. The new Lord Stark was not as handsome as Brandon, but he seemed kinder. _And young_.

 _But then again, Cat always gets the better deal_.

**II**

At the wedding feast Lord Jon only danced with her the once; and Lysa found herself dancing more with her sister’s husband than she had with her own. He wasn’t a good dance, not quite, too stiff and rigid like all northmen probably were, but he tried.

After their bedding Lysa rolled over and pretend to fall asleep as soon as her husband was done; and found herself thinking, _this is my life now_.

**III**

Her firstborn would have been the same age as Catelyn’s Robb, had her father not drowned him with moon tea. _You will have more children, Lysa_ , he had promised her, trueborn children; but they would not be Petyr’s, and Lysa had refused to speak to her father even again after that.

 _You will have more children_ , he had said; but, by the time her sister’s daughter Sansa was born, all that Lysa had were two miscarriages. Grand Maester Pycelle told her that there was nothing to be done, nothing but pray, and provided both Lysa and her lord husband with fertility potions.

“The Lord Hand is a great man, my lady,” Pycelle told her, somber, “but an old man’s seed is never strong.”

**IV**

When Lysa met Eddard Stark again, briefly, some two years later, she was surprised to find him handsome.

It was the aftermath of Balon Greyjoy’s revolt and a victorious Robert was returning with his fleet from Pyke, a lavish show for the whole city to see. She had accompanied Jon to the docks, together with the Queen; and almost hadn’t recognized Ned Stark – perhaps it was the armor he still wore, or the close cropped beard, or the gleam of victory.

And Lysa she thought, not for the first time; that perhaps Ned Stark was no Petyr, but she wouldn’t have minded being married to him.

 _We could have been happy_.

**V**

The last time Lysa found herself wishing she could have married Lord Stark instead of Lord Arryn was two months before her lord husband’s sudden death. Ned Stark, she remembered, had five children, one of them Sweetrobin’s age; and the eldest now almost fifteen.

And yet none of them had been sent away from Winterfell, much less with the likes of _Stannis Baratheo_ n, of all people.

It was no secret how much Lord Stannis despised and envied his brother’s boyhood friend. _If I’d been married to Ned Stark_ , Lysa thought then, _he would never have sent a child of mine to Stannis_.

**\+ 1**

_Tears of Lys_ , Petyr had told her. _No taste, no color; and no one will take your son away from you then_.

Lysa had always loved to read; her only pastime during the lonely  years at court, before Petyr arrived. She was as well learned as a woman could hope to be; and knew perfectly well what the effects of the Tears of Lys were. For all that it left no trace, it hurt like few other poisons did.

Lysa Arryn was glad, then, that she had not married Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

She would not have wanted to see him dead.


	7. Reverse-verse; Jon/Ygritte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Ygritte came north with King's Robert part to visit her cousin Catelyn Stark; and in Winterfell she meets a handsome young singer - who's really not a singer at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: he’s the wilding, she’s the lady. Warning for skewed Wildling dubcon.

“They say it’s lucky, you know,” the singer said, staring at her with a boldness that bordered on insolence.

Ygritte knew she ought to be angered at the disrespect – the man had _come at her_ , with not as much as a bow. _Or a hint of respect_. Still, there was something oddly interesting about him.

He merely stared when she did not answer. “Your hair,” he continued, and Ygritte felt her hand go brush her hair, self-conscious. “Red for luck. Kissed by fire.”

 _Kissed by fire_ , she thought, amused. Of course, it was the sort of thing a northman could say; and Ygritte found herself, not for the first time, realizing how much different everything would be from now on.

“Well,” she told the man. “I am not of the North.”

“I can see that,” the man answered, smiling; and Ygritte decided she quite liked it. “Did you come with King Robert’s party?”

Did you come with the King’s Party, _m’lady_ ; anyone else would have asked – if they even dared to question a noblewoman at all. It must be northern arrogance, she decided. The man was very much a northerner, with his dark hair and pale skin and eyes as grey as those of Lord Stark’s. Still, she was bored and he was charming enough.

“I have,” she said. “And apparently I am to stay.” _Cousin Catelyn would love to have you_ , her father had told her before she left, _the gods only know she hasn’t much company in Winterfell_. And to marry some Northern lord in due time, of course; but that Father had not mentioned. _Wouldn’t want to scare me away_.

“And what about you?” she asked him. _What does bring a man to the life of an errant singer, and in Winterfell of all places?_

“Jon,” he said, his smile only widening. Ygritte found herself positively shocked at his brashness, wondering if all men in the North were like this. _Of course not, or else Cat would not like it here_. “I came down with Bael when we heard the king would come.”

“Always wanted to see me a king,” the singer – Jon – added, as if it were some sort of secret jape she could not understand.

“And what did you think?” she asked, humoring him. Had he found the experience worth the journey? _And from where?_ He had said he’d come from further north…

“I didn’t like him,” Jon said, and she found herself gasping. Preposterous as it was, it was the funniest thing she’d heard in… longer than she could remember.

“I like you better,” he continued, and she gasped.

“What did you say?”

Ygritte turned her head slightly to glance at the door of Winterfell’s Great Hall, where the feast was still in full swing. She should go back…

“I said,” Jon repeated, and he moved in closer. “I like you better than I like His Grace the Fat.”

She took a step back, but he only laughed. “What do you think you are _doing_?” Perhaps if she started to run…

But he was in front of her in the blink of an eye, one hand circled around her waist, grey eyes staring down at her. And she could feel the tip of a knife scraping her back.

“I’m stealing you,” he whispered, and his breath brushed hot against her cool skin.

* * *

* * *

+++++

*Cue needlessly complicated backstory with Jon being actual canon!Jon stolen away by raiders before he arrived to WF, Ned’s resultant angst for not keeping his promise, someone eventually noticing Jon’s looks and starting up a rumor about Ben Stark’s bastard with a wildling woman. Also, Ben being all like ‘no effin way folks, I was 13!’.*


	8. The Raven, a poem by J. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Once upon a Night’s Watch dreary,  
> While I pondered weak and weary..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not mine, I think it's from reddit. Still, it was worth reading.  
> Enjoy.

Once upon a Night’s Watch dreary,  
While I pondered weak and weary  
Over many a cumbersome scroll from Lord Commanders of yore,  
In the yard I hear jeering, clapping,  
My direwolf his water lapping,  
And the sound of black wings flapping,  
And suddenly there is a rapping,  
Rapping upon my chamber door.  
'Tis the Maester’s seasonal chore…  
The end of Autumn and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, the creaking of the timber,  
The tower glowing like an ember,  
And on they came, like waves upon the shore.  
Our green boys some still unshaven,  
Our cloaks blacker than the raven,  
Yet none dare ever call us craven... "

You know nothing," I heard her implore.

For the rare and fire-kissed maiden lay bleeding upon the floor.

Nameless here forevermore.

Presently my heart starts beating,  
Recalling all the moments fleeting  
Every of her jape and torment  
Stirred my desire that lay dormant.  
And all at once my honor crumbled,  
Inside the cave where we both stumbled

I approached shyly as she undressed,  
And broke my vows upon her breast.

Everything done has been done before,  
And there’s too many lost in this long war,  
And I fear there will be many more…

"You know nothing", she would implore.

My direwolf on the floor is napping,  
And yet still I hear a rapping,  
Of Clydas patiently tapping,  
I rise, no longer able to ignore.  
And the gaunt face that greets me,  
Solemnly entreats me  
To let him pass beyond my chamber door.  
As he enters my safe haven,  
And offers corn unto my raven,  
I ask him what he came here for.

As he explains, his voice starts quaking,  
And his outstretched hand starts shaking,  
A message sealed in pink comes to the fore.

Titled “Bastard” and nothing more.

I feel an awful dread a waking,  
And as I read a sweat starts breaking,  
He thinks the Stark home his for the taking.

By the gods, how much longer must I endure?

Quorked the Raven “Forevermore”

On Northern throne he is still seated,  
And claims Stannis has been defeated,  
And with his wicked bastard blade  
Saw that the Rayder’s wives were flayed  
And offers me a coward’s trade.

Aye, I’ll trade for the Rayder Mance,  
But with sword and axe and torch and lance,  
He’ll soon find the true cost of war…

“You know nothing” I heard her implore

I speak to my men, my spirits soaring,  
Like a fountain, my words come pouring,  
Then I hear a thunderous roaring,  
Roaring outside my chamber door.

“Tis the wind and nothing more”

As I approach, I hear a thrashing,  
Of Ser Patrek’s head a bashing,  
Crashing against my chamber floor.

Tis our giant making war.  
Only this and nothing more.

Upon my person, a hand is grabbing,  
And suddenly a knife is stabbing,  
My throat, my belly, my shoulder blade,  
“For the Watch” I hear, and start to fade.

All around, the world grows colder,  
And I weep for what I ne'er told her,  
To lay my head upon her shoulder,  
Is all I want and nothing more.

Quorked the raven “Nevermore”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert random septa LeNore joke*


	9. Dany, Jaime; The lion strikes back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime tells Dany the truth about her father.  
> A truth no one in Westeros expected to hear.

When Jaime wakes up, he’s tied to a wooden pole, shirtless, hands chained above his head. His world is spinning.

And, he notices, with the barest hint of surprise, there is a black dragon barely three feet from him.

The last one is what makes him suspect that perhaps he is hurt more badly than he’d assumed at first. A dragon, a _real_ dragon, the kind that Tyrion had dreamed of as a child, so close that Jaime could feel its breath on his skin; and yet it was the last thing he noticed.

 _Maybe I am dying_ , he tells himself; and when he sees the girl standing calmly in front of him, bright purple eyes gleaming in anger, he thinks it must be a vision.

Until she speaks.

“Kingslayer,” she says, so much contempt on her pretty face, and Jaime immediately knows that this is not dream, and it’s Daenerys Targaryen he’s staring at. _Targaryen_. He wants to laugh at the sheer irony of it.

 _And now she’s going to kill me, isn’t she?_ Eaten by a dragon, that had to be a painful way to go _. Like Rhaenyra_.

“Princess Daenerys, I suppose,” he smiles at her, trying to remember what happened, which one of his men betrayed him to this dragon queen. _Black Walder, it must have been him_. Who else could it be?

Her face might as well be a mask. A beautiful mask, with none of her mother’s frailty. “Queen Daenerys,” she says; and yes, he can see Rhaella in her eyes. Next to him, the dragon growls softly.

“Queen Daenerys, then,” Jaime hopes he doesn’t look as weak as he feels. “To what do I owe the honor, Your Grace?”

The dragon’s cries grow louder, and he cannot keep himself from shivering. “You know it,” her voice is stern and terrible; and Jaime _knows_. He knows that he’s going to die.

_Why not to do it properly?_

“You betrayed your oath,” she continues, and Jaime finds himself wondering how much she truly knows. Hasn’t Selmy traveled with her since Slaver’s Bay? He must have told her about Aerys.

“You killed my father,” Daenerys says again; and here he cannot control himself. Jaime laughs.

“Killed your father…” Oh, if only she knew. _And now she will_.

“Well, Your Grace,” Jaime tells her, as light and mocking as he can. “From the way I am tied up and chained to a pole, I have to guess that Selmy never told you about your dear old father, didn’t he?”

Daenerys’s eyes narrow, and he can see that he made her angry. Good. “I know enough,” she says. “Viserys told me.”

“He told me about how you killed him.”

_And how? He wasn’t even there._

“Oh, no, _Daenerys_ ,” Jaime laughs again. “You see, that could not be possible.”

“I am your father.”

(Search your feelings, you know it to be true)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, couldn't help myself.


	10. Cinderella (A woman's virtue remix), fem!Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is the hero of their own story. 
> 
> However twisted it might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fem!Jon, because why the hell not. Think of this as a sort of remix of [_A woman's virtue_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1168726/chapters/2387063) (there's no need to reread it, but it's like 200 words long) with an ever weirder endgame pairing.  
>  Angst, OOCness and weird writing style all around.

Once upon a time there was a girl, Old Nan would always begin; and Jeyne smiled.  
 _My story_ , she thought to herself, _she’s telling my story_.  
And the girl would get her happy ending.

No matter what.

_Once upon a time --  
_ The corners of Jeyne’s mouth curled up a little but no one could ever see it, not with the way she would press her face against her knees, hugging her legs curled into a small ball of grey clothing by Robb’s bed, hoping they wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t send her away…  
 _Once upon a time there was a princess_ , the story went, because all the girls were princess in Old Nan’s stories.

Except for Jeyne, of course; she wasn’t a princess.  
Not yet.

_She lived in a castle with a loving father; and her father’s wife, who despised her; and two half-sisters –-_

Not _quite_.

The girl in the story shared no blood with the woman’s daughter; but it was such a tiny detail in such a perfect comparison…  
It was _her_ story, and Jeyne decided on the details.  
She got to tell it the way she wanted.

  _The woman despised her husband’s daughter, for she was beautiful and good and kind --_  
Bastards are born in sin and lust, everyone said, deceitful and conniving by their very own nature. Jeyne pretended not to hear, and smiled.  
She always, _always_ smiled.

 She looked prettier when she smiled.

 _And the lady banished her lord’s daughter to the kitchens and the ashes of the fireplace --_  
The maester’s chambers, in fact, and Jeyne quite liked it.   
A place of interesting things, and wonders.  
A place of _learnings_.

 _…to be a servant for her own girls whose hearts were cruel and wicked --_  
And if Sansa was as sweet-natured as she was pretty and Arya used to follow Jeyne whenever she went --  
it was nothing but a small difference, truly.  
They still had it all, and she did _not_.  
Not yet.

 _And when it came the time for the girl to marry, the Prince of the kingdom found himself in need of a wife, and the king threw a great ball._  
Jeyne had never been to a ball. They were for trueborn ladies, Sansa told her once, with the cruel earnestness of children  --  
But one day she would. A ball, as grand and beautiful as those in the stories; all for her.

You just wait and see.

 _And the woman decided her daughters would marry the Prince, and brought them along to the ball; and the girl went to her mother’s grave and cried her heart out._  
Any other girl might have wanted to know her mother’s name, a marked grave to cry on, to bring flowers to every moon’s turn.  
Jeyne didn’t particularly care. It was her father’s name that would make her fortune, and her father’s looks, and her father’s eyes; the eyes of the woman the king had loved and lost.

You just  _wait_. 

_The girl retreated to the grave to ask for help, and a white bird dropped a white gown and silk shoes. She went to the ball, with the warning that she must leave before midnight ---  
_

(The only white bird Jeyne has ever seen in her life is the one that heralds the changing of the seasons, but didn’t matter.  
The black ravens served her well enough.)

What a fickle thing it was, a Prince’s attention.  
That Jeyne told Sansa the day they buried her wolf.  
Poor, sweet Sansa with her bright red hair and red eyes after crying for hours.

(And red blood running in the streets, wine-colored stains in her father’s room, and flames and smoke and death --  
But we wouldn’t want to ruin the fairytale with such grim details, wouldn’t we?

Jeyne made the rules, and she did not care for the blood.

There was  _never_ any blood.)

Sansa cried herself to sleep but Jeyne knew better.  
Higher than a prince, there was the King.

(“And what about the Lord Regent, my lady?”  
“Who?”)

And when the king died, well.  
Things would get complicated, then --

But Jeyne wouldn’t let them.  
It was _her_ story, always.

She had glass slippers, the girl of the fireplace, but Jeyne Snow had a letter.  
Who’s better?

(“Tomorrow at the harbor, at dawn.”  
“That was wonderful, darling. I’ll need you to _write_ something, now…”)

 _The next morning, the prince went to the girls's house and tried the slipper on the sister --_  
Only, Jeyne had no sisters.

No sisters, or father, or _brothers_ …

(No red spots to haunt her dreams.)

But she did have a castle --  
a  true lady, in the end.

And, soon enough, a _princess_.

 

See?  
Just like she’d wanted.

 

 _… And when the wedding came to an end, and the girl and her prince marched out of the church, the doves flew again, striking the remaining eyes of the two evil sisters blind --_  
But Jeyne had no sisters, and why would she ever wish anyone blind?  
There was no blood, on her white hands.

_Never_ had been.

 

 

Never. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses, besides the fact that I've finally picked up _The Queenmaker_ again, and I'm now drowning in not-nice-fem!Jon feels.  
>  The summary quote is from Brandon Sanderson's _Warbreaker_ , and the version of the story I used is _Aschenputtel_ , by brothers Grimm. The only one who doesn't have a pumpkin, or a fairy godmother - I mean, can you imagine a fairy godmother _in Westeros_?  
>  The only thing I can picture is UnCat, which... ew.


	11. It’s not a cry that you hear at night; Jaime/Elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t protect her, but sure as hell he can avenge her.   
> Or: Jaime Lannister kills a king for the love of a Princess, and other regrets from a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this drabble was supposed to be its own story, for the gameofships challenge a couple weeks ago - then my laptop didn't get fixed in time, and there's no way I can finish this without a keyboard. 
> 
> Also, keep in mind that this is set in the same 'verse as [_Heroes and Ghosts_](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/1157324), an AU in which Rhaegar did actually kidnap Lyanna, and managed to win the war - but Aerys still wants to brun it all.   
>  Unbeta'd

Jaime Lannister meets Elia Martell for the first time when he is eight years old, and she fifteen. Their mothers want them to marry, her brother Oberyn explains him, but Lord Tywin seems to have other intentions. Jaime is relieved, so absorbed in Cersei that even the prospect of a wedding years away is nothing but un unwelcome distraction.

Now, nine years later, he finds himself wishing with all his heart that things could have gone differently. It is not the first time he regrets not having married Elia – he’s had his share of wishful thoughts in the year spent guarding her, the year since Prince Rhaegar disappeared somewhere with his northern mistress – but his regrets have never hurt quite so much before.

_We could have been happy_ , he thinks, making his way to the Great Hall, to Aerys. He ran away when the king gave the order, disobeying his own, because he had to see, he had to  _try to stop_ …

_Too late_. Always, always too late.

Jaime Lannister is made a knight when he is five-and-ten years old, anointed by the Seven, the weight of Dawn on his shoulder and the blood on his knees. He swears to protect the innocent and defend those who cannot defend themselves; and only three moon’s turns later he kneels before the king and swears to protect and defend  _him_ .

Barely a year later, he breaks them both in one night. 

The innocent, he lets die. Beautiful Rhaenerys, as pretty as one of Cersei’s porcelain dolls, and babe Aegon who learnt to walk and talk and never met his father. And Elia, lovely Elia, so full of light despise everything, his greatest regret.

It happens at night and Jaime was sleeping, even if it is no excuse. The whole Keep was, sleeping the sleep of the victors, after the celebrations that followed the announcement of Rhaegar’s victory on the Trident and the Usurper’s death.  _The Prince is coming home_ , Maester Pycelle read to Aerys that very morning, making Jaime’s heart sink into his chest.  _What will it mean for me, for us, that Rhaegar is coming home?_

Elia only laughed at that, with that rich, light laugh of hers. _Why, nothing at all, Ser._

And she was right of course; she always was. He’s seen Elia frown too many times to count this past year, and held her while she cried about Rhaegar and the shame she has too face; but the Princess didn’t even as much as kissed him, dutiful until the end.

And he loves her for it, even now that she is dead.

The tower is still burning, like a torch in the night, and Jaime can hear the cries. Some say the city is burning as well, that there are spies in the city and the king has ordered his pyromancers to kill everybody. Jaime doesn’t care about the city, not when _Elia is dead_ and Aerys still lives,  but he knows the king well enough to know what he’s doing. _Spite_ , Jaime realizes. Revenge for the son who won the war and the love of the kingdom, by killing the wife and children he left behind as if they did not matter. If there is a sense in Aerys’s reasoning Jaime cannot see it.

_He really_ is _as mad as Robert said_.

Poor, dead Robert. Jaime laughs and laughs as he runs, until his shoulders shake and his chest hurts, and when he brings one hand to his face he can feel the tears running through his cheeks.

He reaches the room, finally, and Aerys is sitting on the Throne like he knew he would. The torches flicker and the hall is doused in light, not quite red, but close. The red of a blood orange, Jaime decides, like the Martell sun. It shines on the walls and the Throne alike, dancing on Aerys’s skin.  _He looks like a old man_ , he finds himself thinking; but even that doesn’t stop him.

Aerys’s blood runs down his blade and Jaime sits down on the floor when he’s done, empty. Aerys is dead but so is Elia, and there is nothing more he can do.  _Dead and gone, forever_ .

When they find him, Jaime is crying.

 


	12. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jon/Sansa- WW2 France AU- Theme: resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Jigglypuff [here](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/13084914?add_comment_reply_id=13084914) & written in literally 15 minutes so mmmmh.   
> It was _was_ supposed to be 5 sentences, but by now I guess we all know that synthesis is really not one of my gifts.

  
They go from house to house, knocking on doors and smasking windows, leaving tears and cry and death in their wake. On the third day Madame Solange shakes him awake with a worried frown on her grey face, lips thinning and apologies in her eyes, and Jon knows that they have to go.  Pyp tells them not to, that he'll talk to his mother and she'll come around, but Jon is too much of a friend to take advantage.

After all, he says, he's got all the right papers. Sansa is the problem, his beautiful cousin with her too-bright red hair that makes her stand out in a crowd, lovely Sansa who can't speak out without her accent giving her away, and if they should bring her in for questioning, if they should find out that yes, she is the daughter of _the_ Lord Stark, personal friend of the Prime Minister... Jon can't risk it, and neither can she.

Stupid, he thinks to himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd met Sansa by chance the first time he was in London, a lifetime ago, and fell in love hard and fast, before he even knew who she was, what they were too each other. _Your mother was my father's favourite cousin,_ she wrote him once, _you look so much like him, Jon, he would want to meet you. Come visit_. But he'd said no, like the prideful fool that he was, and she'd come instead, and now there was war everywhere and people rioting in the streets, and Sansa was in danger.

"Mance will get you out," he tells her, trying to sound sure and more calm than he feels, and really is not much of a lie at all, because he knows Mance and his weakness for pretty women in bad situations, and Sansa is the prettiest of them all. "He knows people, they'll get you on a boat and you'll be home by next week. I promise."

"You should come with me," she says, and _oh sweet girl_ , he thinks. How dares she make such beautiful promises they could never keep. Home for Sansa is Lincolnshire and the beautiful family manor his mother has told him so much about, that Winterfell of wonders Jon has never seen. But _home_ , his home, is Marseille and the red house he grew up in, and the memory of Lyanna in every corner, every dusty room.

He wants to go with her more than he's ever wanted anything in his life; but he can't. And when the kiss for the last time is sweet and bitter at the same time, slow and lingering, his lips hovering against hers and Jon can taste all the regret in the world, and all the hope.

 _One day,_ she whispers. _One day_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm taking prompts for the next few days for *all* of my fandoms; you'll get a 5-sentence-drabble (i'll REALLY try to stick to the limit). Prompt has to be character/pairing + 1/2 words, otherwise there's no way in hell I'll manage to keep it short. Any other prompt is going to go into the 'mid-lenght-prompts' folder, for future reference :P


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr & Robert + prompt 22 (two miserable people meeting a wedding)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't even know. Written for [this](http://justoldlights.tumblr.com/post/96117389440/petyr-b-robert-b-22-two-miserable-people) prompt, which I thought was brilliant, myself. The writing maybe not so much, but I tried.

This is shaping up to be the worst day of Robert’s life. 

Worse than his parents dying, he decides; he’d been so young back then, he can barely remember. Worse than the day Lya left him for good, because now she’s here at the reception with that Targaryen pretty boy, of all people.

And, worst of all, Ned is getting married.

He has tried to be happy for his best friend. He’s tried so many times – of course Ned deserves it; of course he and Cat make the most adorable couple in the history of humanity; of course the wedding is tasteful and classy and the event of the year; but he still cannot bring himself to be as happy as he should be. And to think, he even likes Cat.

He just doesn’t like how boring Ned gets around her, and how now they’re going to move back to the old family home in Wisconsin – Winterfell, Ned’s dad used to call it; Robert remembers that – and Robert can feel the grasp of adulthood and loneliness and all the things he’s never wanted; that, and the cold touch of Cersei Lannister’s pawns.

He shivers.

“Hey Baratheon,” someone calls, and he turns around just in time to see…

“Baelish?” he half says, half asks – Petyr Baelish, that’s his name, Cat’s old family friend and Lysa’s date. The kid looks just as miserable as Robert feels, if not more, and he suddenly remembers the rumors Ned told him once, that little Petyr was sweet on the bride. Cat thinks it’s cute, Ned had said, sounding vaguely amused instead of insanely jealous as any man should be.

Robert would have been jealous, for sure; and he steadily ignores the little voice in his head that tells him, this is why Lyanna dumped you, you idiot.

“Baelish,” he repeats, more sure. “Just what the hell do you want?”

The other man shrugs, then throws Robert a sideways smirk. “I just heard you got always the good booze,” he says. “And I got a room upstairs to get drunk in peace. Care to share?”

Robert doesn’t even have to think about it. What the hell, he decides.

“Sure thing,” he nods. “Liquor works for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL keeps getting in the way, and I hate it. I promise I'll have _Brave as a Lion_ up this week, and hopefully more stuff to come. The next round of got_exchange starts tomorrow over at LJ, and maybe that'll jog my muse back (also go sign up!).


	14. Lyanna/Oberyn + misunderstandings, masquerade balls and too much wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna/Oberyn + prompts 34 & 28 from [this list](http://justoldlights.tumblr.com/post/96058254524/) (masquerade Ball AU + knocking on the wrong door)  
> I have to say, this was challenging because of the wird mix of prompts. Still, I had lots of fun doing it!

At the tender age of twenty one, Oberyn had already had a few scares in his life. There’d been the almost-caught-in-flagrante-with-the-teacher thing back in school, the pregnancy hoax when he’d been eighteen, the time he’d almost been caught in bed with the wife of one of his mother’s business associates, the _actual_ pregnancy; and probably even more messes than he could remember.

(But he had no doubt that Doran could.)

None of that, however, had prepared him for this morning.

It had started wonderfully, at first – waking up in a soft bed with a warm body by his side, mind still pleasantly buzzed after the party of the night before; and then he slowly turned his head to see…

“Holy _fuck_.”

Of _all the people_ in the world.

“What?” said his bed companion. A beautiful woman, without a doubt, but a beautiful woman who was definitely _not_ Ashara Dayne.

“What?” she asked again, sounding far too amused for… whatever time it was. And so he told her.

“You’re not Ashara Dayne,” Oberyn said, which, okay, nowhere as smooth as he usually was. But _shit_. He recognized the girl as Lyanna Stark, who had dated Elia’s ex for a while and who was the reason why the Targaryen slimeball had enjoyed a lengthy stay in the hospital, courtesy of Lyanna’s brother Brandon.

He definitely wasn’t scared, but he might be nervous. A little.

“I’m not Ashara Dayne,” Lyanna Stark agreed, with far more grace than any girl should after such a line. But she was also looking like she found the entire situation hilarious, and maybe that was it. Maybe she was just crazy. “Do you often have problems distinguishing other women from Ashara Dayne?”

There were a thousand things he could have said – it had been dark, he had been drunk, Lyanna’s mask the previous night hadn’t been much different from Ashara, and after _that_ , when she’d taken it off, it had been too dark. And really, it wasn’t his fault that place had so many rooms with so many doors that all looked the same. Shella’s family place – called Harrenhall by her pretentious parents – had to have _at least_ twenty bedrooms. A man could get confused there, especially after a few glasses of wine.

“Okay how about this,” Oberyn said, because _she_ had started it. “Do you often sleep with people who think you are Ashara Dayne?”

He was expecting a glare there, or maybe a punch – she _was_ Brandon Stark’s sister after all – but Lyanna just laughed. Yeah, she was definitely crazy.

“I’m on the rebound, I’m allowed to do stupid things,” she shrugged. “Besides, and someone will end up telling Robert,” Lyanna threw him a gleeful little smile. “He started it first and man,” her smile widened. “He really, really doesn’t like you.”

 _Dead_ , he thought. He was so dead.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm [on tumblr](http://www.justoldlights.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing.


End file.
